Michael Louviere was a man of the people,
Who held in his hand a book of the law,
And outside his belt a gun for his safety,
But never would he have used it for ******,
I'm told he helped many but never killed any,
But Sylvester Holt did not believe it,
He said the actions of one create a whole guilty people,
And he took the matters into his own  hands,
And killed poor young Michael for serving his people.


So I'm sorry young man, you been born with white skin,
In a world with the permissions to ****** and to maim,
But just to have freedom depends on your name,
But if you think its good I suppose ill let you,
Work for a cause that is just out to get you,
And keeping in line with the others before him,
Sylvester took the bait and the hook nearly gored him,
But the worm could've lived it was just his misfortune.


Sylvester laid down with a bullet in his chest,
And the gun in his hand had a burning hot barrel,
He assumed death was better than life and life only,
But in his last second he pulled out a small knife,
And cut in his gun small violent furrow,
It was then that he realized this all wasn't worth it,
He saw those two notches and handed himself in,
To a lifetime of no pain and and unwoken rest.

In mornings unwoken

A turn toward the sleeper

And presentations to eyes that will not open

Nor see to the chesty howling

Nor a smile shared on skin and other spaces

Tied to the arms moving violations

And subliminals creeping upon you through slats of sunlight and shaking eyelashes.

Dust that’s formed in the folding where the nose shades seep into blood vessels store the dreams nodding at coming days.

Bullet holes admired by tourists, defunct airports admired by tourists and the flashing bulbs which used to carry them away,

Here lies the grave
Of an unknown hero
Fighting for his country
he lies cold and tired.
A single shot fired
straight to his heart
Blasting him through time
into an unknown place
a frustrating place of nothing
A place where poppies grow
and a field of dreams.
Unwoken dreams,
never ending, but for a poppy.

"The Scent of Spinning"

Following the curve of your neck in the dark.
Watching your eyes close in slow motion as I slow my motion.
The smell of your bare skin sends me spinning,
rendering me helpless into your fold.
Time slows the flows of sweet smelling wine down your neck line.
Tracing soft lines down your back, our eyes close.
Excesses of ecstasy rekindling even the cinder within our beating hearts.
Clinging to the start of each new moment, we slowly roll and fold together.
The scented potion of sweet devotion renders quiet all but steady motion like slow ocean waves.
Laws of science, all broken.
Jaws are silenced, none is spoken.
Embraced in compliance, a dream unwoken.
The hour after you're gone,
reminiscent hints of you scent linger on.
Again I descend into a hypnotic slumber,
sent spinning by the scent of your bare skin.

R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2002

life and its glitters, the boredoms that seek to write
the inspirations of death with its healing joys
and life with its uttermost sorrows

i, a fractured sky, disinclined to move,
divorced from shadow and voice
unwoken by the mild pull of the earth

an old romance of ears and eyes, yellow and round,
heavens-hopes the goals of a lifetime
waiting innocently for the rain.

i waited and the shadows of the earth
grew long until they were armies
sleeping near the bleached rocks

believing they were the blanketing dark,
breathing beside autumn’s haikus of
slumber the sharp fall of love, the

intense tide of low grass and high wall.

dreams rushing like princely streams
a beginning of clouds, clouds of black air
sweeping clear, like valleys of the wild

a wilderness so tender it could speak,
where the mighty waves froze the shore-line
with the hints of winter's first kiss

and the magics of the stars cried into fire,
not knowing the flower-beds or the laughter
or the crazy tears of a humble man.

love poured sapphires from its streams
glass-houses of light, where the oceany
air believed in vertical caves, monstrous

caverns of hopes and dreams, marble
statues with broken jaws, unearthly
branches that rose like strange trees

combing the wind into tangles of tide,
hollow night, with its breathing and
mights, its desires, its poetry of mind.

You don’t know what it is to have and to hold,
from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
You don’t know what it is
to love and to cherish,
till death do us part,
according to God's holy ordinance;
and thereto I do not pledge thee
my faith
And/Or
pledge myself to you."

Signed: Your unlawfully almost partner for life

When the day blooms and the light streams
Through the handcarved cracks
Of consciousness it inspires infinity.
The boundless light and undiscovered
Colours of the morning draw even
The birds to serenading, for the
First time, and for the hundredth.

I feel as if I am breathing sunlight.
As if I could raise my hand and weave
The wisps of clouds between my fingertips,
As simply as I lie here on the ground.
It is easier to dream when the sun shines.

At times like this I like to live in daydreams.

I like to dream myself into possibilities
As yet unsubstantial, even previously
Unthought of. I like to be unmade, unwoken,
Confidently lost amongst the scenes of
My mind's creation.

In the labyrinth I can find confusions,
Emotions, revelations unexpected.
But I always find hope.
A hope that keeps the sun shining.

And when days grow dull and wintry,
Spring blooms behind my eyes
As daisy petals and puppy ears
Melt through the rusted lock of memory.
To place me barefoot in the grass
On an immortal sunny day.

tippity tippity tap
tap tap tippity tap
tippity tap tap tap
And
stop.

This is not it.
This is not art,
this is no way for me to start.
This glowing screen
this cold machine
can never catalyze my dreams into
                                       communication
                                                ­   conversation
or fire my
                                                            ­imagination (nor can
The mincing of a pen
across neat lines).  Writing only hurts my hand.

And so,
I stand.

Re-align the ol’ synapses
Click my fingers and my HOUSE collapses!
   And  THERE,
Planet Earth, with a grin, says,
“I dare you!  Throw form to the winds!”  And I,

I want to blast my words from the sky
with a big, black blunderbuss,
scatter the survivors to the four corners of heaven!

I want to ****** my fingers, scraping in the grit,
Frantically digging in the glaur and the grime for runaway rhyme

I want to haul my metaphors in, thrashing, from the sea
Hold them, know them, set them free!

I want my similes to flatten me
Like rhinos on the rampage

Tell me your stories, in everything you do
Make a bonfire of biros, a pixel pyre
And dance  your poems as the flames leap higher!

I want to write with my FEET across a Scotland-shaped sheet!

I do not want to be neat.

To tether in letters,
To file for forgetters.

Words on a page are birds in a cage,
Poetry unspoken
Life, unwoken.

Share with me Cherie  
The life you left unwoken
Asleep under ice

Send me your sweet heart
Riddled with self-inflicted
Knife wounds I may mend

I feel in your words
In your thoughts the flesh you sear
In hope of sealing

And hiding the pain
Of existence without love
Living from below

You are not alone
Cherie do not
Be afraid

Cherie please
Do not wait
For me

Always gestured, never spoken.
Left to dream, alone unwoken.

Finally together, this love will last!
Much effort and time, did not come fast.

Dreary day, soft slumber I make,
But what just happened, was I awake?

a moment.
A small and subtle
moment
in the early hours of daybreak,
where unwoken minds drift between
the real and unreal, eyes flutter
open/closed and semi-lunar valves
bang, open/closed and make a tiny,
tiny racket. A din so quiet;
to be sat a foot away would
lose it amid the noises of
the heaving of unconscious lungs. This is our moment.

There is a moment
in the early hours. For one half second
he remembers you are there
and pulls you closer.
All worthless notions of yourself forgotten,
you just exist on this small island
drifting on the bedroom waters --
in your head there are no people,
cars or towns. In your head there is just this.

I miss you,
I hope for you
someday to return embraced in my
arms of chicken wire,
brittle in this cool breeze blowing across
cracked earth that surrounds me, grey,
the only precipitant;
drops of suspiration from my eyes.

My world skips to slow motion
as I observe with the eyes
of a million unwoken promises,

and it hits the ground,

each drop splattering like a cloud devoured in a
pool of flies.
My body yearns, it aches for you
like a honey suckle longs to be
plucked,
torn in half
licked clean
by the tongue,
moist with desire,
that makes it home in the preoccupied body that will soon discard it,
barely noticed by the taste buds; it moves on to consume another.

Hope leaves me
as I realize
I miss you, but I don’t know who you are…

Made from lust and greed
How can a memory continue to bleed
Swimming in saddness
Treading dead waters
Drowning again in the depths of your sorrow
Frowning again taking steps towards tomorrow
Wondering now just what is the point
Pondering how I sit at the brink
Ice cubes and a cylinder glass
Miscues and a dwindlers past
Wash them away 100s proof
Slosh them and stay, a bundles a spoof
Mere sight lost and all blurry
Clear as night I'm crossed all slurry
Saying thoughts with no worn remorse
Praying clots a lost souls torn corpse
Suicide always is calling my number
Aside the hallways balling my slumber
An unwoken home build on ashes
By an unspoken poem with blood stained clashes
The pictures are burnt and the pages torn
The scars still hurt a broken heart will never learn
Scream in silence at the voices to come
Dream in violence it's the choices your numb
Venture off in your personal hell
Knowing it's your own mind does you well
Swallow it down and accept your fate
Close your eyes and close the gate
Close the gate on the house you can't escape

"This is it. The moment we've been waiting for. The last weeks rapid-fire of information that rocked the unwoken from their slumber. They now pay attention. They are ready for what is coming. The Mother Of All Information Bombs will be upon us next week and we are ready.
Before troops are sent into the fray, they are put into a state of readiness. Q, with his latest crumbs, did just that - specifically asked us anons to stand by for the blast. To keep our memes and truth bombs at the ready, polished and perfected. This is the reason Q is even here with us, to guide us towards what we do best, and that is - to spread truth and ideas.  
Remember how it was five years ago? Do you remember the sense of hopelessness as the establishment was peeling away our rights, our lives, our futures? Do you remember how the World began to turn into a police state? How Google, Facebook, amazon, Microsoft, apple and all of the tech giants strangled our freedom, our ideas and our everyday life? How they rewarded those who were willing to discard it all for the momentary comfort of a few likes on a picture?
We were fighting back then too, in a different way. We were always a force that has had as its core purpose the upsetting of the status Quo. Were were the counter-culture. We were the uncontrollable, the unwanted, the strangers, the weird ones. Those in power did all they could to make us into losers, creating label after label to categorize us as the worst of the worst. We, however were always the barbarians, the nomads of the internet. We never allowed ourselves to be controlled, we roamed networks moving from place to place, free from influence. Until they intervened. Until they made the internet so small it was impossible for us not to join their sick game.
What did we do? We did what we always did when the territories were encroached upon. We raided. We invaded their precious safe spaces. Destroying their carefully maintained normalcy and leaving behind only our war marks on the wall. We Were Anonymous. The internet hate machine.
They tried to wrest that from us. They thought that with the advent of Facebook YouTube Reddit and other central services they would take complete control of the message with free thought snuffed out. We retreated to our fatherlands, to the image boards, outnumbered and outgunned but it will soon end. You see, Q need us for the thing we're best at - Invading safe spaces. Our mission is to invade them and leave behind incontrovertible truth that was given unto us as crumbs to decipher. We now await the MOAB drops to begin our assault. We are prepared and standing by.
I ask of you then, my Battle-brothers and sisters: are you ready? Are you ready to wrest control from the Cabal and years of indoctrination? Are you ready to flood the internet with light, to make the truth known and destroy decades of lies that were put into everyone heads? Are you ready to free your fellow man and women?
Because THIS IS IT. The moment we've all been waiting for. Some of us for all of our lives.. Answer the call, become the hive mind once again and let us lay waste on centuries of lies
There will be no quarter given. There will be no inch given,. There will only be the truth, for the Truth will set us free.
WHERE WE GO ONE, WE GO ALL."

#Qanon

Portrayed in absence
Nasty taste left
Under swollen cheeks
Bitterness

Twisted up nerves
Conclusive Skulls

Perturbation unraveling
Sacred kept
Unwoken
Dreams

Dwindling
Darting
Captured
Locked

Deep seeded
Frustrations

Viscera
upside down

Computed relief
Only
Just
Aspiration

I vow not to lose my mind because my underpants have been stolen
by gold-star dykers exposing for me to see purplish ******* swollen
midway between noses & bellies yet far above each impacted colon
in the casket of what putridly remains of Satanic slave Lloyd Nolan
who died not wrecked into a tree by a Julia-type as had Marc Bolan
after knocking up driver Gloria Jones, with whom he sunk a goal in
he croaked one last croak as fast as Henny Youngman told a joke in
betwixt Ed's toady laugh & the intro of Johnny's ******-guest token
never had there been mo' jive **** shat, visually projected & spoken
& articulated with mucho abandon disregard for busted toys broken
floorward, sonically disruptive enough to awake cadavers unwoken
& so loud as to shake the deadliest of unawakened corpses awoken,
conscious & alert like ****-******* New Jerseyites from Hoboken
who fled Hispaniola island in strung-together rafts of pine & oaken
that groaned like ****** plagiarist Jerzy Kosiński during his croakin'

Stead he, once aloft high mountains
the ravine bellowed upon tides unsung,
sought lands unbeknownst to him
far across oceans as daffodils chirped
to be still whilst robins burned
and hound the tasteless nectar
ripped asunder underneath the spiral shelled slimy chained beasts ...

Once it was that everlasting agony
could not fulfill perfunctory oaths whiche'r
sunken tribe prided upon,
the chieftain adorned in his garland of skulls
satiated his pains within lofts of fire.
Sparks clouded the presumptuous begat holy water
and knives wound heretofore hate ridden bellies,
carved with rusted blades and bent iron
With each bell rung, a million epochs tumbled.
and Thus hovered the pledgion, crying hoofs and browbeaten droughts
in all splendor and prose !
Giant trees stood before him
reproaching the presence of bygone feet
loud was the rustle and harsh were the uncurling leaves
to be withered away by blackened seeds.

In halted symphonies did cries of woe recede before
hate blurred lines that fear devised,
and pride begrudged asunder, crones of fruitless endeavour
towards sunken cloth and forsaken joys;
Instinct upon reach lay before he
"Whereupon this glance is my whittled bride
she who prattles about in surreality ?"
the silence followed the swift tail wind and met the brittle spear
****** herein, louting jaundiced rendezvous and accoutrements winked into
by lonely hearts shrouded in frivolous tones of mystery.
But falter not did he,
for men do seldom bathe in the harness of failure
rather than crows mimic the nests of sparrows
so that every twitch lauded and immortality spanned by darkened visages
cawed into the blood, hitherto plucked in tarry reeds;
He came upon a fork
and wondered aloud "why is there but a nested abandon 'ere -
soaked fragrance and ridicule greets but the seldom few
who dare challenge the beast that lay within;
wary of unwoken lust bound in shiny drudgery,
be it ignorance that compels the starving
that voyages sown upon tapestries raw,
could take shape in weary eyes
and nascent tears of milk,flood the bow
yet unstruck by ignoble appetites of unladen treachery
while lurked prey lament the sharpened
sow of her majesty's trumpet ground in dust through
riveting songs of intertwined floods
adorned in destiny and swindled by fate !"

"Now look here, to the west" , the voice cried
for riches to be held in weight vanished the annals writ within
"Cry to me the sorrows to be laden
by growing tendons and grudges herein.
In these pangs of misery do I dream of the morrow,
of countless sunlights upon the flesh of misery
and wings that glide amidst tenuous storms",
For neither did mountain nor river below
do little to fasten a shade of warmth and passionate sin,
halt either stride or furrow
With which giants leaped across corpses of devils
and men scribed souls towards glimpses of voluptuous grins.
"Lend but an ear, to the magical east,
at laughter glowing and talons lauded
with unsung whispers raked in sun belied rot,
and sagely jests upon magisterial gods"

Thus ends his journey to fallowed ravines,
bound in knowledge and in blood,
O Men, Speak no more of his glorious persona!
As mercy beckons for grace to begin
and with fallen stupor groweth wisdom
to be perched upon desire unfulfilled but lulled into unity,
As twilight echoes through dawn like rumbling snow capped peaks
and the orange night succumbs to starlight with fateful longing
So does he peruse the forsaken trail
forevermore, and at ever last.